


Parameters for our Tomb

by Face_of_Poe



Series: Hamilween [1]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Star Trek Fusion, Creepy, Happy Halloween!, M/M, Non-Consensual Bondage, Non-Consensual Kissing, Rape/Non-con Elements, semi-sentient plant-life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-31
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2019-08-11 12:49:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16475882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Face_of_Poe/pseuds/Face_of_Poe
Summary: An odd enough mission anyway; local curiosity more than scientific interest.“How can nobody know?”Washington spares him a backwards glance; Hamilton manages to avert his gaze upwards just in time. “Civilizations collapse every day.”“They don’t simplyvanish.”





	Parameters for our Tomb

Midway up the winding, narrow stairway, Hamilton was forced to conclude that he really ought have taken point; now, the top in sight, he’s entirely given up pretending that he isn’t staring at his captain’s ass as they climb. An odd enough mission anyway; local curiosity more than scientific interest.

“How can nobody know?”

Washington spares him a backwards glance; Hamilton manages to avert his gaze upwards just in time. “Civilizations collapse every day.”

“They don’t simply _vanish_.”

“We are here to ascertain _facts_ , to collect data; let’s keep those distinct from rumors and legends, shall we?”

“But Captain,” he calls after him, Washington’s attention returned to the steps, slippery with moss and dew from the dank air. “None of the contemporaneous local records indicate any sign of strife, of disease, famine, and _our_ scans failed to turn up any evidence either.” Washington crests the top stair and emerges onto the parapet, Hamilton two steps behind. “No signs of mass graves, or – _oomph_.”

He goes down hard at the top step. His tricorder flies from his grasp and skids along the stones and he barely catches himself before faceplanting.

A hand descends into view; he takes it grudgingly. “Apologies, Lieutenant; I did not see the hazard.”

The _hazard_ , it turns out, is a thorny vine growing across the narrow walk – which is at least less embarrassing than tripping because he was busy ogling his commander’s physique.

“Well then.” He dusts himself off with as much dignity as he can muster.

“Are you injured?” But the question sounds distracted. Hamilton follows Washington’s gaze down the long wall, where creeping tendrils have clawed their way over the rampart walls, hugging the battlements, jagged prickles jutting out until only a narrow path remains viable down the center of the parapet. “A century may seem insignificant when we consider galaxies and the rise and fall of empires; but it is a long time for nature and the elements to reclaim the terrain.”

He eyes the semi-barred way with rising unease. The air grows heavier, a misty fog that caresses the exposed skin of his face, his hands, the back of his neck, like some scarcely tangible presence hovering amongst them, between them. “I don’t know if I like this, sir.”

He doesn’t mention the _other_ legend to be found in the local lore – that most who dared explore the lost colony of Bri’eros never returned, and the few who did suffered an incurable madness.

Washington looks back again in surprise. “ _Are_ you injured?”

“…No…”

His captain looks him up and down a moment, eyes discerning. Hamilton can feel his face go hot at that piercing gaze, a steady contrast to the chill steadily seeping into his flesh.

And then his face relaxes. “Check in with Burr and Church. Find out if their scans have yielded anything of interest.” Hamilton reaches for his communicator but some of his confusion must show on his face. “You might be comparatively new to the crew, Lieutenant,” Washington chuckles as he crouches down and reaches absently for the lost tricorder, “but I find your instincts to b – _oh_.”

Hamilton looks up sharply. Washington is staring at a single thorn embedded in the middle of his palm, a thin trickle of blood weeping towards his wrist. “Sir?” No response, and his gaze darts to the tricorder where a long tendril of thorny vine has curled around it in the scant minute since he dropped it. “ _Sir_.”

He drops to his knees in front of Washington’s crouched and immobile figure. Pulls his injured hand closer and studies the thin spine before yanking it deftly free and chucking it aside. No inflammation, no shift in Washington’s steady breaths to indicate an allergen or a toxin at work, he simply… stares, blank, while the dank air grows dense around them.

“Burr?” he speaks faintly into his communicator. “Church?” Silence – not even the static of a bad signal. “ _Revolution,_ come in.”

Nothing.

A faint breeze stirs the fog; like murmured voices on the wind. Whispers crooned into his ear.

He swipes his thumb across Washington’s palm to wipe away the blood – and nearly starts out of his skin when the hand twists and seizes his wrist in a punishing grip. “It’s me,” he gasps. “Captain…”

Washington stares at his face for a long minute before recognition starts to creep back in. “It _is_ you,” he says like a revelation, before moving all at once and pulling Hamilton to his feet.

“Sir?” He scrambles for purchase on the moss-slick stones but Washington moves forward, pressing him backwards step-by-step towards the rampart wall. He tenses and waits for the bite of the brambles in his back but it never comes, and he risks a quick look sideways and sees the creeping appendages have parted for them. “Uhh…”

“It’s _always_ been you.”

He wills the panic back. “Sir, you’re not – this isn’t you, Captain -”

A thin tendril wraps around one wrist, and then the other as Washington releases his iron grip. He tries to yank free but the vines are strong, pinning his arms to the wall.

He halts his struggles as Washington curls a broad hand along his jawline. As he leans in and murmurs low by his ear: “Can’t you hear them, Alexander? They’re waiting.”

“ _Who_?” he begs, voice a low and desperate plea. “Sir, please…”

“The lost ones.” Washington’s other hand comes up to frame his face. Another vine crawls slowly around his neck, a mocking caress, and he stares, petrified, into unnaturally dark eyes. “The trapped souls of Bri’eros.”

Washington leans in and there’s nothing gentle in it as he plunders his mouth. The vine tightens slowly around his throat and he struggles, twists his head side-to-side until teeth sink brutally into his lower lip so hard he tastes blood.

“They’re waiting,” Washington repeats in a whisper.

Darkness closes in on the moaning wind, and the last thing he knows as Washington withdraws is the slow bite of thorns pressing into his flesh.


End file.
